Operation Sunshine, page 17
Willow steered the conversation back to Lexie’s upcoming date, but Ben hadn’t missed that flicker across Franco’s face. He leaned against the door frame, studying him. The way Franco laughed along too loudly, the way he waved his hand as though the subject was closed, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet anyone else’s for a moment.
Ben knew walls when he saw them. He’d spent years constructing his own.
Why does it bother me so much, seeing them in Franco?
It was nearly midnight, and they were stretched out on Ben’s couch, takeout containers on the coffee table, filled with what remained of their late meal. A single lamp illuminated them, and Franco could still hear the faint sounds of the city: Adelaide wasn’t ready to call it a night yet.
Franco’s head rested on the arm of the couch, one hand absently twirling the stem of an empty wine glass. Ben sat at the other end, his long legs crossed, watching him with that quiet focus Franco was getting used to.
Franco chuckled. “Do I have food on my face?”
Ben didn’t answer for a moment. “You’re good at it, you know.”
Franco arched his eyebrows. “At what, eating all the spring rolls?”
“Matchmaking,” Ben said simply. “Everyone seems to think you’ve got a gift for it.”
Franco gave a quick, theatrical shrug. “What can I say? I’ve got an eye. I see people, I see what’s missing, and so—” he snapped his fingers “—I fill the gap. Easy.”
Ben didn’t look away. “And was what Raj said accurate? Or can you apply this gift to your own life?”
That landed harder than Franco expected. He tried to laugh it off, but the sound felt brittle. “No. I’m a disaster zone.” He gestured to himself. “I’d never inflict this mess on someone willingly.”
“Franco.” Ben’s tone wasn’t sharp, but he managed to make his name a question.
Franco lowered his gaze and stared at his glass.
If I wait long enough, he might drop the subject.
“I’m still here. Still waiting.”
Franco set the glass down with a sigh before bringing his feet up onto the seat cushion, his arms around his knees, his stomach tight.
“You ever think maybe some people aren’t meant to have that kind of story? That maybe the role they’re meant to play is the best friend, the wingman, the guy who makes sure everyone else gets their happily-ever-after?” He shrugged, forcing lightness into his voice. “That’s my role. It’s safe. No one leaves, no one gets hurt.”
Ben’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t interrupt.
Franco lowered his voice. “Look, I know I’m loud. I flirt, I laugh, I… distract. But all of that?” He gestured vaguely at himself once more. “It’s easier than letting someone get close enough to see what’s underneath. Because if they do, and then they decide I’m not worth it…”
His throat seized, unable to finish the sentence.
Ben leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees. “You think you’re not worth it?”
Franco wanted to make a joke, to throw back something sharp or ridiculous. But Ben had spoken in such a gentle tone that he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
“Sometimes,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, his chest aching.
The silence that followed felt heavy but not suffocating, as though he was standing at the edge of something vast.
Ben shifted a little closer, reached out, and laid his hand over Franco’s. He didn’t squeeze it, but let it rest there, a reminder of his presence.
Ben’s gaze met his.
“You’re wrong.”
Franco’s first instinct was to roll his eyes, to dismiss it with a grin, but the look in Ben’s eyes stopped him cold. It was serious, unwavering, as though he was staking something real on those two words.
And for once, Franco didn’t have a comeback.
His hand twitched under Ben’s, more a reflex than intention, but he let it stay, enjoying the warmth of Ben’s fingers. It was a simple gesture, yet it made his chest tighten in a way he hadn’t expected.
“You know,” Ben said softly, “you don’t always have to be the one holding everyone else up.”
Franco’s lips twitched into the smallest smile, laced with uncertainty. He wanted to argue, to tell Ben he was fine, that he could manage, that he thrived in the chaos he created.
The truth was lodged somewhere between his ribs, warm and stubborn.
“I’m not sure I know how to let someone see what’s in here.” He gestured to his heart.
The one thing he usually kept hidden.
Ben brushed his thumb lightly over Franco’s knuckles. “You’re here. You’re letting me in. That’s enough.”
Franco’s throat tightened, but he didn’t pull back. Because there, in the quiet of Ben’s living room, with the memory of their shared nights, the small intimacies, the laughter, and the lingering touches, he had an epiphany.
This was more than desire, more than heat.
He’d fallen for Ben Whitaker.
Ben leaned forward, both hands on Franco’s now. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before,” he admitted, his voice a little rough. “But I’m not scared of it. Not with you.”
And in that tiny, almost imperceptible moment—the first crack in the armour, the first admission that their connection was real, that Ben felt it too—Franco realised something terrifying and exhilarating all at once: he didn’t want to hide anymore, not from Ben, and not from himself.
Whatever this was, whatever it had become, he knew he’d risk the fall a thousand times just to stay in the space Ben made for him.
“Franco.” Ben’s voice cracked. “I want you. I need you.”
Franco could hear it in Ben’s voice, and he realised that same need burned in him.
“Then have me.”
Chapter Twenty
Franco barely had time to breathe before Ben’s mouth was on his, urgent, hungry, as if the world might end if they didn’t collide right then and there. The taste of wine on Ben’s breath, the press of lips and the clash of tongues sparked something wild and reckless in Franco’s chest.
He clutched at Ben’s shirt, dragging him closer, heat and want flooding every nerve. This was what Franco knew: a frantic edge, messy need, desire sharp enough to burn, all of it creating a wildfire that consumed before it could be questioned.
Then Ben’s hands framed his face in a caress. He pulled back enough to look into Franco’s eyes, his breath ragged, but his gaze steady.
Piercing.
“Slow down,” Ben murmured, his voice low but firm. “I want to see you.”
The words unravelled something deep inside Franco. No one ever wanted to see past the sparkle, the chaos. And yet here Ben was, holding him still, as though every flicker of emotion on Franco’s face was worth committing to memory.
Franco’s throat tightened. He nodded, unable to speak, and let Ben set the pace.
The kisses softened, deepened, morphing from frantic into reverent. Ben’s mouth moved over his like a vow as he slipped his hands down Franco’s sides with aching patience. Each touch was a question, an offering, and Franco’s body answered before his mind could catch up.
When Ben eased him back onto the couch, their bodies fitting together in a tangle of limbs and fabric, Franco felt bare in a way that had nothing to do with clothes. Every brush of Ben’s lips along his jaw, every drag of his thumb over Franco’s chest, said the same thing.
You don’t have to hold it together here.
Ben pressed a kiss below his ear, the slow roll of his hips making Franco gasp. “I think you’re worth it,” he murmured, echoing the words from earlier. “That’s why you’re here now. With me.”
Franco’s eyes stung. He clutched at Ben’s back, his nails digging into fabric as sensation blurred with emotion, raw and overwhelming. He let out a shaky laugh, part sob, part awe. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“No,” Ben whispered against his mouth, kissing him slow and deep, as if he had all the time in the world. “I’m going to make love to you.”
The words hit harder than any frantic touch, harder than the rush of lust coursing through Franco’s veins. His chest cracked open, terrifying and exhilarating, and he let himself fall, fully and helplessly, into the space Ben carved for him.
They started slow, Ben removing Franco’s shirt to press sweet kisses to his chest and abs, teasing his nipples with tight flicks of his tongue, one hand on Franco’s neck, the other in his hair, connecting them.
Binding them together.
Time spun out in a lazy web, wrapping itself around them, cocooning them, drawing out every sigh, every breath, every touch. Lips grazed shafts and tongues teased and worshipped skin, and the air filled with the sound of their mingled breaths. Franco laughed when Ben reached between the seat cushions to produce the bottle of lube, and then he didn’t hesitate when Ben paused, kneeling between his spread thighs, his hand working his thick cock.
Franco nodded. He ached for Ben to open him up, fill him, stretch him…
And when Ben finally moved inside him, languid and steady, cradling Franco’s head in his hands, holding Franco’s gaze as if it was the only thing that mattered, Franco understood what it meant to be undone and remade all at once. This was so much more than sex.
It was surrender.
It was trust.
It was love, wild and unstoppable.
The room smelled of sweat and skin, the air thick with the heat they’d created between them. Franco lay on the couch cushions, his chest heaving, every muscle deliciously spent, and yet his heart wouldn’t stop racing. Not from exertion, but from the way Ben had looked at him.
Was still looking at him.
Ben lay stretched out beside Franco, one hand absently tracing lazy patterns along his ribs, his breath warm against Franco’s temple, his weight a steady, reassuring anchor, those blue eyes focused on him.
Franco averted his gaze and stared at the ceiling, blinking hard. His throat ached.
Sex isn’t supposed to feel like this.
He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
He tried for levity, his old shield. “Well, I guess it was time the couch saw some action. Variety is the spice of life, right?”
The joke sounded hollow, even to his own ears.
Ben didn’t laugh, but pressed a kiss to Franco’s hair and murmured, “You don’t have to hide with me.”
That simple sentence undid him more than the sex ever could. Tears, hot and sudden, stung him, and his breath shuddered out. He turned his face into Ben’s chest, muffling the sound before it could escape.
“I don’t…” His voice cracked, and he tried again. “I don’t know what you see in me.”
Ben’s fingers stilled against his skin. He tipped Franco’s chin up, forcing their gazes to meet. “Everything.”
The word landed heavy, irrevocable, and Franco couldn’t look away. He felt exposed, every wall stripped bare under the weight of Ben’s quiet certainty.
“I’m a mess,” Franco whispered.
Ben chuckled. “Behind those spreadsheets, so am I. And I still want to hold you.”
That broke him all over again, not in the fiery, catastrophic way he feared, but in a way that felt like sunlight cracking through storm clouds, beautiful and powerful.
Franco took several deep breaths, willing himself to stay right there, letting the warmth of Ben’s body seep into the cracks, filling places Franco hadn’t even known were empty.
I don’t have to perform, to dazzle, to run. I can simply be.
And Ben was still there.
Still looking.
Still holding him.
Still seeing him.
As Franco drifted in the quiet aftermath, lulled by the steady beat of Ben’s heart under his ear, one thought settled into him, not for the first time, but now with bone-deep certainty.
He’d fallen in love with Ben and there was no taking it back.
The morning light came through Ben’s kitchen window, washing over Franco in a way that made him pause. He wasn’t used to mornings like this, gentle and unhurried, without alarms or obligations screaming at him. Ben moved around the kitchen, flipping eggs, humming under his breath, and Franco leaned against the counter, his arms crossed, drinking in the quiet.
“I’ll grab the coffee.” Ben reached past him for the French press. Franco caught his hand for a second, a lingering brush, and a shiver ran down his spine. Not lust this time.
More like belonging.
“You look good in a kitchen,” he told Ben.
“Huh.” Ben snorted. “The kitchen in my flat in Melbourne was hardly ever used. I ate out all the time, even breakfast. I don’t think I cooked a single meal in it.” Then he grinned. “You’re more at home in a kitchen than I ever was.”
“Never like this,” Franco admitted.
Ben frowned. “Like what?”
He smiled. “It’s like I said the other morning. Never… with someone I wanted to wake up next to.”
Ben’s hand stilled on the coffee pot, and it was as if the words hung in the air, palpable. Franco met his gaze, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved, lapsing into silence, broken only by the hiss of the stove, the clink of utensils, and the soft hum of morning.
Ben set the coffee down and brushed his thumb over Franco’s wrist. “I like this,” he admitted. “When it’s the two of us. No deadlines, no games, just mornings like this.”
Franco’s chest tightened, the familiar fear creeping back, but he forced himself to breathe. “Me too,” he said in a low voice. He wanted to say more, to tell Ben he didn’t think he’d ever wanted this feeling to last before, but that with Ben…
Words failed him.
Ben’s fingers threaded through his, steadying him. The fear of falling, of getting hurt, still lingered, but the need to escape was tempered by a stronger emotion.
He wanted this.
They moved through the kitchen in tandem, cooking, laughing, stealing small kisses between tasks. It was domestic, ordinary, and yet somehow, it felt extraordinary.
Franco caught himself thinking maybe mornings like this could last. Maybe the walls he’d built around his heart weren’t permanent after all. That maybe, with Ben, he could learn to let go a little.
The thought didn’t terrify him as much as he expected. If anything, it made him ache in the best possible way.
If this is what falling in love feels like, then I don’t want it to stop.
Chapter Twenty-One
Franco watched as Ben got dressed. “Something I said?” The bed already felt empty, and Ben had only been out of it for less than ten minutes.
Ben gave him an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, but I need to go home. If I walk into the restaurant one more time in the same suit I left in the previous night, not to mention the same shirt, tongues will definitely wag.”
Franco snickered. “You mean they aren’t already? Want me to come with you?”
Ben laughed. “We also need a night apart to prove we can actually survive.” He leaned over to kiss Franco on the lips. “Stay in bed. That’s how I’ll picture you when I’m alone in my flat—already missing you.” He picked his messenger bag up and slung it over his shoulder.
“No going home and firing up the laptop, okay?” Franco admonished.
He chuckled. “I promise. I intend to grab a quick shower, then slip between the sheets that probably still smell of you from two nights ago.” Another soft kiss. “So I’ll pull them around me and fall asleep with the smell of you in my nostrils.”
Warmth stole through Franco. “The things you say…”
Ben smiled. “And you love it.” He brushed his lips against Franco’s. “See you in the morning. Sweet dreams.” His eyes twinkled. “I know mine will be.” And with that, he left Franco in his bedroom, the click of the front door following a moment later.
Franco flopped onto his back, his arm thrown across his eyes. The sex had been phenomenal as always, but what was even better were the intimate moments when they’d lain wrapped up in each other, sharing laughter and kisses. Sex made him ache in the best way.
What followed fed his soul.
The ping from his phone next to the bed jolted through the quiet like a firecracker, and he grabbed it, smiling.
He’s only just left.
He peered at the screen, its blue-white glow casting shadows across his ceiling. It wasn’t a text, but an email.
Who is emailing at this hour?
Then he saw the subject line, and Franco forgot to breathe.
Subject: Invitation to Stage – Chef Gallo
His heartbeat raced, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second before tapping it open.
Franco,
We loved your video and hearing about your approach to hospitality. We’d like to invite you to join us for a three-month stage in Florence, beginning the first week in September. It was a tough process choosing the right people, and my apologies that we didn’t get back to you sooner.
Let me know if you’re interested. I know this is short notice, but I hope that doesn’t prove too much of an obstacle. As indicated in the application, there is accommodation provided, and your weekends will be yours to do with as you wish.
I look forward to hearing from you.
– Chef Gallo
He read it once. Twice. A third time, until the words blurred and all that remained was the thrum in his chest, faster and faster, a snare drum rattling against his ribs.
Oh my God.
This had been his dream, the thing he’d once scrawled on the back of his notebooks in school, doodles of the Duomo mixed with pasta shapes. To cook in Italy, under Gallo of all people. To stand in those kitchens and belong there.
Franco sat up, then flopped back down again, pressing the phone to his sternum. The ceiling swam above him.
He should’ve been ecstatic. He felt as if he was fourteen again, barefoot in Nonna’s kitchen, dusted in flour and daring to imagine he’d make it out there, in the big wide world where food was art and life and home.
